It’s March, aka The Rollercoaster Month: The foot of snow from last week is melting; another six inches are on the way tomorrow; it’s going to be close to 50 degrees next week.

I have to re-read “The Shape of The Fire” every time about this year. The beginning is just so perfect to capture that early spring angst, the mess of the world before it all progresses at the end to high summer and a flower in a vase:

Water recedes to the crying of spiders.
An old scow bumps over black rocks.
A cracked pod calls.


Shale loosens. Marl reaches into the field. Small birds pass over water.
Spirit, come near. This is only the edge of whiteness.

(Read the whole thing here, since it’s hard to quote from this one–you mostly have to just jump in and go ’til the end, not unlike listening to Richard Strauss.)